


Tales of the Silver Dragon

by GraceEliz



Series: Silver Dragon [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: AU, BAMF Draco Malfoy, Black Hermione, Canon is not a thing and i don't know her, Family Shenanigans, Gen, Indian Hari, Powerful Draco Malfoy, Referenced death of family members, Referenced violence, Some Swearing, Very much an AU, references to Greek mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: A-Z prompts, set in the Silver Dragon 'verse of my own creation, providing snippets and background to the verse as a whole. Includes:- family shenanigans- a little pining- growing up- angst- a bit of death, not going to lie to you.Please check the specific chapter summaries.
Relationships: Draco & Fenrir & Hela & Jormungandr, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: Silver Dragon [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1465792
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. A: Fire, Flames, or Excessive Heat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will make you a deal,” said the deity, “If you can bear the heat, as you are now, with no added spellwork, I will help you.”
> 
> “I will do it,” swore Draco, to himself and the Ancient One. It laughed again. “I will. I have no choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muspelheim

Draco scraped his daggers across a patch of scraggy moss on the cave wall, sharp eyes catching the barely-visible sparks cast by his blades, tasting the ash in the air. The whole planet smelt sulphurous, poisonous, dusty and spoiled. The blood of the dragon-like creature he’d slaughtered at the entrance to the cave had a peculiar purple tint to it – which seemed wrong, as most creatures from the fiery pits of Muspelheim had black blood, or navy. Sweat dripped down his back under the thick protection of his dragonhide fighting leathers. He’d have to remember to skin the creature outside, or summon some soldiers to do so quickly before the hide stiffened beyond use. It would bring him a fortune when he sold the treated hides, if he made it home. 

He wrapped the recording-stone in his palm, whispering the activation spell, watching and listening for movement in the shadows, sharp dragonish ears pricked, flickering in a most inhuman way. Were his mother to see him now, he doubted she’d recognise him through the black well-worn leather, dragon’s eyes and ears, close-shorn hair rubbed through with ashes. Perhaps his tattoos would carry a hint; the wolf and stars on his shoulder matched his mother and Remus’.  
Perhaps they’d be put off by the scarring, or the glowing blue pin-prick marks from a bite from a sabretoothed lyre-eel – oh, a long time ago now, back before the Queen allowed him loose as a warrior. Low on his hip sat a sword in a stone, King Arthur’s sword, water pooled at its base. Rubbing his finger over it, Draco spoke his mission report into the stone, remembering his mother’s face when he came home with a dressing peeking over the waistband of his shorts. She’d been so furious. 

His wand buzzed out a warning against his forearm. A slight flick of the wrist dropped it down into his hand, ready to attack or defend. 

“You’re flighty,” came a voice, rasped, ancient. 

“Ancient One,” he greeted cautiously, alarmed by the sudden arrival of the presence, “I came with a request.”

The rocks rumbled. “Speak.”

“My family has been torn. I am searching for a way to break the curses ruling my brothers and sister,” he said boldly. The Ancient would be able to talk circles around him; best not give it the chance. 

“And you believe me to be of aid? You can barely withstand the heat of the cave you occupy, let alone the cave you must brave for the answers you seek.”

Draco gripped the hilt of his sword, silently casting a bright illumination spell. Nothing was revealed. He could have sworn the Ancient One dwelling in the molten heart of the planet laughed at him.

“I will make you a deal,” said the deity, “If you can bear the heat, as you are now, with no added spellwork, I will help you.”

“I will do it,” swore Draco, to himself and the Ancient One. It laughed again. “I will. I have no choice.”

Pebbles tumbled as the ground shook. 

“We always have a choice, young one.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Does it need to be?”


	2. B: Under Cover Of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her bond-brother’s mirth flared. “When you hear the screaming start, drop down onto him, but don’t kill,” said Jori down their bond. Fen echoed Draco’s laughter, shifting into his wolf-shape, and the two beasts slunk through the shadows as Hela had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swartalfheim

Hela crept through the shadows of the citadel of the dark-elves, a wraith, unseen in the corners of rooms and alleys, formless as the wind. The inhabitants of the planet grew fat and cruel on the suffering of the light-elves, forcing them to work and work and work. Oh, her own knives were Elvish, true, the four warrior siblings equipped with the finest of Elvish silken under-armour, but they had earned their right to wear it through pain and blood, as dictated by Elvish tradition. Perched high in the Main Hall rafters, she leant out over the horde of dark-elf soldiers. Swartalfheim was nigh on barren, no greenery anywhere on its surface, even more barren than the broken planet of the ice-giants. 

It seemed a most irregular destination for the famed Brethren quartet. 

“Drake, I spy,” she breathed. Through the telepathic connection the four had built for themselves Draco pushed through the boundaries of consciousness so he could use her eyes, trading sights in a dizzying transition. From his eyes she drank in the night sky stretching far far away, a startling bright contrast to the usual dull grey light and cloud. Such clear skies were a detriment to the plan. 

Draco snapped back into his own head moments later, pushing her back into the Hall. Shaking the fog from her eyes, she leant into their bond for his decision. Attack? Wait? Infiltrate, as their father did so well? 

“Move closer to the dais,” said Draco in her head. The bond-shape flowed, pulsed, not painful but awkward as it reformed – he’d shifted into a drake, an unstoppable wingless silver living tank, as he called himself in that form. Taking the initiative, Hela dropped her glamours and let herself shift to her terrifying half-dead form – the Angel of Death, many called her – as she melted through the shadows to directly above the throne. Their father had convinced the God of the Underworld, Hades, to teach them the shadow-travel techniques and they had come in very useful indeed in covert missions as these. For a full day Draco and Jori had been working their way into court, Fen and Hela sneaking around the citadel’s dark spaces like beasts in the night on the edge of the firelight. The dark-elves’ corrupt government was ready to topple, and the Brethren were the weight that would make it crash into the barren black dust it stood on. 

Finally the dais sat below her, the Dark-Elf king reclined as brazenly as Hela herself sprawled over her throne-to-be. Slaves served the many round tables spread through the huge hall, but none ever looked up, not even the soldiers lining the edges of the hall. “Do you see what you need to?”

Her bond-brother’s mirth flared. “When you hear the screaming start, drop down onto him, but don’t kill,” said Jori down their bond. Fen echoed Draco’s laughter, shifting into his wolf-shape, and the two beasts slunk through the shadows as Hela had. Too large in his serpent-form to be of use, Jori would remain the tall pale duplicate of their father, and speak the words that would turn the factions of the Dark-Elf government on each other whilst Hela held the king hostage. Only when the elves agreed to sign into the Alliance would they be permitted to continue their lives – without the slavers in positions of authority. 

Father would be proud of their speed. 

Sharp smile contorting her face, Hela dropped as terrified screams met her ears, and the four-person coup of Swartalfheim began.


	3. C: A Moment's Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four brothers and their sister sit in the shadow of a crumbling gatehouse, dust hanging in the air. One by one, they pass a single Earth-style cigarette, taking a drag and heaving the poisonous chemicals back into the air, for all initial appearances just five human soldiers taking a breath in the lull of battle – they could be a black-and-white image from the First World War of Earth, or footsoldiers on the plains of Fangel Six during the Great Occupation, or even just guns for hire in any of the poverty-stricken towns on any planet in the sector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Undisclosed Location (classified, subject to Realm Of Nine Protection Legalities).

Four brothers and their sister sit in the shadow of a crumbling gatehouse, dust hanging in the air. One by one, they pass a single Earth-style cigarette, taking a drag and heaving the poisonous chemicals back into the air, for all initial appearances just five human soldiers taking a breath in the lull of battle – they could be a black-and-white image from the First World War of Earth, or footsoldiers on the plains of Fangel Six during the Great Occupation, or even just guns for hire in any of the poverty-stricken towns on any planet in the sector. 

They are, with the exception of the close-shorn blond, not human.

The tallest of them is a lanky, slender man, with eyes an unnatural shade of glowing emerald green. If one were to get close enough to touch, perhaps the scaled ripples on his bare skin would become visible under the layered grey dust, and the serpentine slits of his pupils would send chills down the spine. Rumours held that any soul unfortunate enough to see the pricked fangs of Jormungandr Lokason’s tteet must be sure to die – for one does not see the light in the eyes of death and survive unscathed. His name in the tales is The Serpent.

Beside him is another young man, slender and quite short, with long legs and flowing locks in shades of chestnut. Compared to the Serpent his face is positively curved, but from the right viewpoint he and his brother have the same facial expressions – their father’s hard stare, the younger man’s mother’s smile. He moves faster than the wind, far quicker than mortal eyes can track, fast enough to skip between neighbour-planets without even having to shift. This Lokason, whisper the rich of Asgard, is only an animal who happens to also have an Aesir body – but at least he is not a monster, like the others. His name is Sleipnir.

Up on the steps sits a woman, pale as death and many times more beautiful. Where her tallest brother is a copy of their father, she is their father made in a woman’s form with her mother’s plumper lines. Unblemished she appears to be, until she lets her glamour drop with a ripple of seidr and a laugh on her pale lips; many beings have been said to drop dead in sheer terror of the transformation. Half of her beauty is melted away into bone, nothing but stark white bone. Nobody has ever mistaken Hela Lokisdottir for anyone but herself. For a certainty she shares her father’s flair for the dramatic.

Down on the rubble-strewn cobbles sit two more men, one pale and slender, one much heavier set – twice the size of his smallest brother Sleipnir. This man has a much more rugged approach to his hair: where the Serpent and the Angel never have a hair out of place, the third of the three children of Loki and the ice giantess Angrboda rarely even attempts to tame his mane. Each laugh is more of a snarl, each yelp of surprise wolfish, each smirk a wrinkling of the lip which reveals sharp teeth – broad fangs, compared to his brother’s needles. Wolf’s-teeth scars litter the bare skin of his shoulders, leather armour in a heap at his side as he waits for the last of the quintet to finish stitching a ragged slash to the shoulder blade. Fenrir Lokason is the Alpha, the First Wolf, and every werewolf in the universe must answer to him or die. 

The last of the five siblings is the human, the not-a-god, the white-haired Midgardian wizard with seidr wrapping around his soul. Out of all the five he is the one who must never be in the wrong, who must always do the thing that is right, who must prove himself to be loyal to the realms and their people. His eyes have the subtle glow of a dragon’s eyes; his ears are slightly elongated in the manner of an Elf; his teeth are sharp; his nails hard and long. Magic flows from his hands into the skin of his brother with a bright glimmer, tattoos on his arms glowing bright with the exertion. Draco Black, the Silver Dragon, embraces his name and the brand that comes with it. 

“How went the fight?” asks Sleipnir, leaning into his oldest brother.

“Fine, I suppose,” the Serpent answers. Each syllable is clipped and sharp much in the manner of their father.

Down on the cobbles, the Dragon and the Wolf snicker at some joke made by their elder sister, who leans back from them with a self-satisfied smirk. Fenrir growls out some snide comment to make Hela laugh out loud, a sharp barked “Ha!” into the still of the gritty courtyard.

“The Aesir are losing their shit.”

“When are they not though, when it comes to us,” snarks Draco.

Fenrir scoffs, hauling himself heavily to his feet. For such a large man, he moves smoothly, like the wolf he is, all muscle-wrapped bone and scar. He plucks the cigarette from his sister’s lips, drawing a deep breath in before stubbing it out on the dry ground. Serpentine, Jormungandr uncoils himself to his feet – and the two men are gone, vanished into the gaps of the world between one heartbeat and the next.

“Back to the front, then, I suppose,” draws Hela as she stands. The myths tell of her in emerald silks and high-heeled leather; this Hela is not a queen but a warrior, with dragon-hide armour tailored to fit and imbued with many magicks for defense and protection. Sleipnir hugs her tight, as tight as he can, then Draco, and in a burst of wind he is gone, sprinting between the stars to carry messages. Not a warrior like his brothers and sister, but still impossibly more than anyone else. Draco and Hela shared a glance, and in a moment were gone, leaving the little gatehouse courtyard empty but for floating dust. 


	4. G: A Fistfight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’ll need to be very careful not to heal too fast or strike too hard, or his mother and Remus will be on him like a tonne of bricks over magic use in a muggle environment – even for defending his cousin. He loves Harry. Harry is his family. Family, for Draco and his mother, is to be loyal to above all things. Therefore, when someone upsets him, Draco takes them to task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent, England, Earth.

Draco rubs with his wrist at the blood trickling down his chin. A split lip to go with what felt like a black eye – he’s getting angrier, now, the seidr rolling from his blood, his very cells, into his magic. He’ll need to be very careful not to heal too fast or strike too hard, or his mother and Remus will be on him like a tonne of bricks over magic use in a muggle environment – even for defending his cousin. He loves Harry. Harry is his family. Family, for Draco and his mother, is to be loyal to above all things. Therefore, when someone upsets him, Draco takes them to task. 

“Yer a stuck-up rich kid snob,” snarls the boy he’s beating, spitting out ‘snob’ like he’ll catch the plague just by saying the word. Draco smirks his mother’s smirk. 

“Yeah, but I’m better than you,” he retorts, “An’ you know it!”

The boy lunges at him again, the surrounding schoolkids howling and cheering for their reigning champion. Rolling with a blow to the knee, Draco makes eye contact with a worried Hari, who has pride of place as the cause of the fight. Winking, he scrambles to his feet and raises his fists, smirk still firmly in place. 

“You shit,” hisses the boy, striking wildly. 

Draco dodges. “Better’n you,” he says. Out of the corner of his good eye Hari drops his head to his hands briefly, gesturing wildly to stop and cut their losses. A teacher is coming. Evidently the unofficial ring needs moving. “I do so hate to leave a victory unclaimed, but you know how it is,” he draws in the exact manner Siri does to arrogant customers, “Gotta fly before I’m clipped.” In his confusion the boy falters, and Hari grabs for Draco’s arm and yanks him away. Behind them the remaining students of the local primary scatter down the back alleys, for what little protection they can offer, the Headteacher bellowing for them to halt. They’re in so, so much trouble – their mothers will be called. The two boys, light and dark, laugh between wheezes.


	5. K: On The Edge Of Consciousness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asgard.  
> Kent, England, Earth.

It should never have ended like this – not for them, not for anyone, they were just kids, how could they do as the Thing claimed they would? Had they not proved themselves? Was this not enough? 

The lash came down again, splitting skin, blood spattering over the paving stones, splashing in the dust. 

“Draco Lucius Black Lokason,” intoned Odin All-Father, “You have been found guilty of consorting with enemies of the realm,” the lash fell again, harder, making Draco sob – “And are henceforth sentenced to one hundred lashes.” The All-Father watched impassively as Draco cried out under the lashes – what was this? Twenty? Fifteen? 

He forced his head up. Frigga, grandmother, met his eyes, tears tumbling down her face. From the depths of his bruised soul, Draco summoned up his remaining strength, and spat at the Odin-King. “My sponsor will hear,” he rasped, resentment in every choked word, “I will see you pay for this.”

“A great threat from one brought so low.”

“Kin-Killer,” hissed Draco, “I name you –”

“Thirty,” rumbled the Einharjar dealing the lashes, unmoved by Draco’s sobs of agony. Vision blurring, he forced himself to meet the eyes of the King.

“Kin-Killer. Child-Killer. Murderer. Torturer,” said Draco, loud enough to be heard. The lashes came down faster. He held the eyes of the man who’d cursed his family until the pain overwhelmed him, crawling into his vision, stabbing at his heart. 

“Draco, I’m sending you home,” came a voice – a woman’s voice – not mum or mother – not Hela – Grandmother Frigga maybe – 

“Will he wake up properly?” 

“I don’t know, love.” Mum? Remus? Dad…. 

Pain. Horrible singing pain all down him, every limb, every cell, every ounce of magic and seidr. Overtime to recover. Fading in and out – mum had been in? Mum and Dad- Remus? Home. Midgard – Earth. Oh Norns, his family… The black emptiness of unconsciousness was welcome relief. 

“He’s coming around, slowly.”

“Can you move anything? Draco? Try to move a little,” said a firm kind voice. He lay on his front, he hadn’t noticed that. Waking up meant pain and missing and anguish. He sunk himself back into the blackness. 

“Please wake up, son, your mother is missing you,” whispered Remus. Remus. Draco twitched a finger. “He’s awake! He moved,” called Remus, “Draco, love, wake up, come back to us, okay? Come soon.” He let himself twitch his lips before he sunk back under.


	6. M: When It Rains/Snows/Storms.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see you,” she said firmly, eyes on the wooded horizon, “And I see so much more than you think. Your father is a bad man, Draco. A Nazi. And your mother? Well. I will not demean her by pretending not to be eternally grateful she’s on our side. You’re all loyal, loyal to fault – you’re Slytherin. What I am going to do is teach you to love. I am going to make your loyalty to every living creature in this realm. You’re a bomb waiting for the right time to burst, and when the time comes, you’re going to explode in defense of everyone. No more bullying people for bullying Hari. No more insults hidden in polite words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wiltshire, England, Earth.

The tree stretched around and above them, a cathedral of leaves, a magical protection from the persistent rain. Wet rain, Draco had found, meant a very different thing in the North to what it did in the South – and rain in England appeared to mean something heavier and altogether more depressing than in France. 

“You want to take me away,” he said finally, staring out at the garden, imprinting it as much as possible onto his memory. 

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly. “To train me, in both magics.”

The woman nodded, watching for a sign that the boy accepted the weight she’d offered him. For many, the option to train to become a high-ranking official would be grasped with both hands – by themselves, their families, their factions. What little Draco knew of her abilities would be the deciding point, whether the fear of the creature she’d become would send him scurrying as it did so many, or whether like so few he would look at the monster and know he could be better. He paced, back and forth, beneath the boughs of the mighty oak – an ancient tree, with its own magic – enough times that her focus drifted to the bonds in her mind, listening to reports from the fields of war out in the universe. 

“You want me to be – whatever impossibility it is you have in mind. I’m clever, and strong, and the two magical cores will give me a boost, but I’m a kid. I’m 16,” he stressed, “I haven’t even done my exams.”

“At the end of the summer, we will go.”

Exasperated, the boy threw his hands up in the air, swearing. The muggle words falling from the aristocratic young prince brought a smile to the woman: he would learn, and adjust, and his corners would be polished by training and experience and other people until the boy she saw grew into a man. 

“Why me?” 

There was a long heavy silence. 

“I see you,” she said firmly, eyes on the wooded horizon, “And I see so much more than you think. Your father is a bad man, Draco. A Nazi. And your mother? Well. I will not demean her by pretending not to be eternally grateful she’s on our side. You’re all loyal, loyal to fault – you’re Slytherin. What I am going to do is teach you to love. I am going to make your loyalty to every living creature in this realm. You’re a bomb waiting for the right time to burst, and when the time comes, you’re going to explode in defense of everyone. No more bullying people for bullying Hari. No more insults hidden in polite words.”

Draco stared. Somehow, this woman who nobody except Tom Riddle himself had even met had read into his heart and told him the truths of himself, and taken it upon herself to make him into – what? A Knight? A soldier?

“What will I be? A soldier?”

She smiled. “A diplomat. A general. An icon of peace and power.”

All his life, he’d known he would do amazing things. Lord Voldemort himself taught him control, the Howlers and their associates were members of his family. There was Sirius spearheading the pursuit of magically adapted muggle vehicles. Monty Potter – Hari’s adoptive grandfather – was still considered a leading figure in the field of technomancy, and Draco went there for his holidays and regular sleepovers with Hari. His own mother represented the changing attitudes of the wizarding community (and no, she wasn’t necessarily a good woman but she loved wholly and her loyalty once gained was hard to lose) towards the muggles and their various accomplishments. This? 

Oh, this was more than any of that. New worlds, aliens, the tantalising glimpse of knowledges beyond even Hermione’s comprehension – 

“Yes. I’ll come with you.”

She smiled. “Get fit – ride competitively, fence as much as you can, and I will come back soon.” Standing, she brushed leaves out of her skirt. A flick of her fingers formed a shield over both her and Draco. “Practice, and get strong.”

She left him under the cathedral-tree.


	7. N: The Colour Green.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, okay,” laughed Hela, passing the bottle of caf-laced Tiduri rum to Fenrir, “I’ve got one. Would you rather be stationed permanently in your home system, or never go back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mountains, Asgard.

“Okay, okay,” laughed Hela, passing the bottle of caf-laced Tiduri rum to Fenrir, “I’ve got one. Would you rather be stationed permanently in your home system, or never go back?”

Fenrir scoffed. “Never go back, duh. I’m gonna travel f’rever. You lot can all come visit me.”

“I think I’d stay,” said Sleipnir, “But not, like, Asgard. Vanaheim. Or Midgard.”

Draco took a swig of the ale he’d liberated from their father’s kitchen that morning, leaning back against the bulk of his horse, Zamora, tipping his head back to the stars. “Stay, probably, nobody makes wars like the Nine.” The other four nodded in agreement. “S’my job to stop it, so, stay.”

Hela prodded Jormungandr awake, startling him into hissing viciously. “Pick, Jori. Stay in the Nine or never come back.”

He scoffed. “Go, obviously, before dear old beloved His Royal Grandfather kills us off.”

The five sat in silence in the wake of that statement, an uncomfortable reminder of the unease the siblings were met with whenever they went home. Jori uncorked another bottle of ale with his left fang, poison hissing in the fire as he tossed the cork into the flames, sparks bursting up and up in the crisp dark. 

“Mm, I got one,” Sleipnir said from his headrest in his sister’s lap, “Green like emeralds or pink like Hela’s nails?”

“Green,” said Draco immediately. 

“Does it have to be that shade of pink?” asked Fenrir. 

“Yes.”

“Green then,” he grunted, rolling onto his back, one hand stretched out, toying with the flames.   
Jori didn’t answer – a glance proved he’d fallen asleep again, coiled in on himself unnaturally, only his face visible under the heavy folds of his cloak. 

“Lightweight,” rumbled Fen. His sister huffed a half-laugh. Sleipnir rustled away from Hela closer to Draco, shuffling around for a minute until the two settled with Sleip lying on Draco’s chest, holding his brother’s arm close around him, the boy’s feet over their sister’s legs. 

“I like your heartbeat,” murmured the boy, “S’good.”

Draco squinted down his nose, trying to focus, eyes drifting between human and draconine, before giving up and setting his head on his saddle. The rum and ale packed a hell of a punch. “We’re going to be in a lot of trouble when we go home, huh.”

“Yep,” agreed Hela, “But we’ll blame it on Jori.”

“Reckon Sig’ll get us though,” Feb rasped. The alcohol disturbed his weak vocal cords, making speech a challenge, but the five were all accustomed to putting themselves through a little discomfort in favour of communication. After all, they loved each other, and they were family.


	8. O: stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco isn't one to pine, except that he totally is. He's also got some worrying tendencies towards idolisation, but hey, he never claimed to be healthy.

“Have you been to all of them?” asked Hermione, smiling. She leant over the balcony to bring her head nearer his level. Perched in an empty tree bare of all leaves, Draco shifted his weight so as to meet her bright eyes. Curls wafted in the breeze – the braids he wove for her still secure, a net across her crown to hold the hair out of her face, slender braids trailing down from her nape and temples to reduce bulk. The talented witch could, without exaggeration on his part, fight a war if necessary in those braids without them coming loose.

He’d learned from Sigyn, Sif, Hela. Even Thor, and then Fandral. The blonde himbos – huge of heart, dumb of ass, Thor and Fandral were fiercely intelligent and almost always underestimated – had taught Draco more than he thought to ask about the history or hairstyles, their meanings and traditions and connotations. He would never tell her, but what he’d done for Hermione would be considered tantamount to a marriage proposal on many of the other worlds in the Nine.

“Not all.”

“A lot though,” she pushed.

“Yes.”

“Come up and talk to me,” demanded the woman he loved (who would never love him back not ever, how could she). The curtains wafted out into the air behind her. Norns below, but he could fall in love with her all over again just for this clichéd moment. Unable to resist her invitation, Draco climbed lithely up and sprang for the balcony balustrade, taking more pride in her awed gasp at his leap than he had when showing off for Hari and their (now huge) family. Norns, but for all the curls and thrumming magic and personality, she was actually really quite small. Not that Draco was overwhelmingly larger than her, not by any means, but he looked down to her, and from this angle he could see that her eyes were almost as dark as her skin.

“Do – are you coming in, or shall we sit out here?” Hermione turned to her door breaking the spell Draco would have sworn was woven by the restrained eagerness in her eyes. If he asked her, would she kiss him? Would she run? Step away, claim him insensitive, bring up the pain he caused by leaving, by only coming home a broken man who’d lost his second family?

“It’s up to you. I do not feel cold like a normal human anymore,” answered Draco quietly, watching for a reaction to his display of _otherness_. His girl-of-dreams paused, considering.

“We shall sit in, the wind is too sharp for me.”

“Perfect.” He drank her in as he passed through the diaphanous drapes, absorbing as much of her beauty as possible, smirking at the dark flush along her cheeks when she realised he wasn’t necessarily referring to the night itself. After so many years trawling the depths of the Nine he’d certainly picked up a few things from his sworn-brothers (Fenrir Lokason was a flirt) that he had never really needed, but they came in useful sometimes he supposed from time to time.

Hermione settled on the plush sheepskin rug at the foot of the bed, flicking her wrist to light the fire opposite them, eyes bright – like a galaxy – as she indicated him to sit beside her. When he did, hesitant, undeserving of the glory of her, unworthy to even breathe the air of the planet she blessed with her presence, she leant into his side. Her shoulders fit under his perfectly – but perhaps that was because she curled into him like he was the only heat in a freezing room.

“There’s this unnamed galaxy, out on the other side of this sector. I think I’ll name it for you.”


	9. Y: forced transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild body horror, because the Eldritch vibes be like that.
> 
> The first time a transformation is forced on Draco, it tears each cell of his body into shreds, realigning every part of him into the silver-scaled beast of a dragon.

The first time a transformation is forced on Draco, it tears each cell of his body into shreds, realigning every part of him into the silver-scaled beast of a dragon. Much like the werewolves he’s seen resisting their shifts, Draco screams and screams and screams, skin flaking off, bones crackling and buckling into new shapes. His tears leave dried white tracks on the glinting scales of his face, mottling into patterns like watered silk. A shift of his own will itches like pure wool on his skin, especially the first time he succeeded in a complete shift: he was almost nineteen, high on the powerful magic coursing through his blood like water through a mill-race.

The Odin-King is unmerciful in his heart towards him, despite the appearance of a grandfatherly concern for his friend’s adopted human son. Up on his throne, he observes the gasping silver-scaled dragon. In all the boy’s twenty years he has never felt this much terrified resentment for a man – too young when his father Lucius was killed to have many remaining memories of him. Lying here on the cold marble of the so-called Golden Realm’s throne room, he fixes cold reptilian eyes on the man his brothers call Grandfather, and starts to rebuild the occluding walls around the lingering pain in his mind. Loki comes running to his side, having felt the screaming through their bond – but it’s damaged, faulty, like radio static, and all he feels through it is his foster-father’s desperation and fury.

The tenth time he is prepared for the agony, relaxed as much as possible, ready for the all-over sensation of knives – it’s not at all unlike the Cruciatous, or any of the myriad torture curses he’s been attacked by over the many years of his life. Clinging to his bond with Hela, his brothers, and his foster-father seems to reduce the psychological bruises and damage to his protective occluding walls.

He thinks it’s Hermione he can hear shrieking in the background of the pain. Maybe so, maybe not, but whether it’s her or not someone is crying out for him, for this to be stopped. Silly little mortal girl, he muses as his vision realigns into the razor-sharp edges and million subliminal senses of the dragon, tears like looking through a crystal glass, doesn’t she know this is for the best? His magic, on Hogwarts grounds, has to be forced through the inherent magical warding of the wizarding school, made strong by centuries of wizarding folk passing through.

Still. It hurts. He struggles to his feet, revelling in the coiled strength of draconic muscle coating his hard hollow bones. Hermione is indeed crying. Carried on the breeze, her tears taste of fear, salting his tongue. Furious on her behalf, he tips back his head to roar into the dark sky, blue-hot fire rippling up into the atmosphere. It is terribly beautiful, in the manner of ancient Kings, of marauding emperors, of furious vengeful warriors.

The shadows of Hogwarts’ towers are painted lightning-blue under the unearthly curtains of dragonfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish this was longer but... yeah I can't remember what else I was going to do.


	10. Z: driven to madness by being alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Displaced.  
> His trio of friends stare in horror. Even in this wrong place they’re close enough to him to know he isn’t lying. Desperate for release, escape from this unfamiliar body, action, his seidr and magic are sparking in the air, sending out tendrils of glowing light and glitter from his fingers as he flails his arms. Exhausted, he collapses onto the seat again, limp.

“Okay, Draco, tell. What’s up with you recently?” Theo and Blaise bracket Draco on the common room sofa, Pansy perching behind Theo on the arm. He has to work to hide his flinch, debating whether he can share his secrets with his dearest friends. Is it safe? Is he totally alone in this alternate world? Could he find his other three blood-bound if he looked hard enough?

Theo picks up where Blaise left off, “Ever since the end of summer you’ve been off. Unburden to us, please, we’re worried about you. The Dark Lord lives in your house, for Merlin’s sake!” He’s too exhausted to brush them off as he has been doing – too done with all this shit to isolate from his oldest friends – his teeth are grinding.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy- ” starts Pansy, a familiar hard light in her eye as she crosses her arms.

“Don’t call me that!” He buckles over in grief for all he has lost when he hears the name he rejected so long ago, tearing at his hair, tears in his eyes, voice hoarse. “Norns below, please.”

Silence looms as the three Slytherins have a silent consultation. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

“You couldn’t possibly believe me.”

Pansy leans over, eyes only barely less diamond-hard than when she first sat. “Tell us. We love you, Draco, and you’re – gone. Not too changed but you’re not covering up anymore – no cowardice – don’t take this wrong but you were always one to skulk in the shadows when it came to anything sensitive and now you just, don’t.”

“Hell, I even saw you eyeing up the Granger girl,” muttered Theo, “like your heart was broken.”

Draco throws himself to his feet, giving in to the frantic seidr bubbling up like shaken champagne inside. “How can I explain it?” he demands of them. “I woke up in a body that isn’t mine, in a world I don’t recognise, with people who just aren’t who I know, the girl I love despises me and looks nothing like she should, most of my family are missing or dead. What can I say? What do you want me to say? The man my entire world respects is a _monster_.”

His trio of friends stare in horror. Even in this wrong place they’re close enough to him to know he isn’t lying. Desperate for release, escape from this unfamiliar body, action, his seidr and magic are sparking in the air, sending out tendrils of glowing light and glitter from his fingers as he flails his arms. Exhausted, he collapses onto the seat again, limp.

“I hardly know who I am,” he brokenly admits into the dark dungeon, his friends warm anchors at his sides, gazing emptily at the windows into the lake. Finally, after two long months spent hiding, unable to process his new traumas, he breaks apart.

The war is over. Finally, finally, it’s finished, and the monster masquerading as Lord Voldemort – pretending to be anything more than a shard of the worst of humanity in a paper-white husk – using the name of one of Draco’s heroes – is dead. Killed. By Harry, of all people – his Hari would never kill anyone, ever, at all. Not once. As children, it had been agreed that if anyone they knew was going to kill someone it would be Remus, Siri, or Mum. But here, in this parallel Earth, they’re all killers. Every soul he meets is stained with the ashes of a long brutal war. Even the children.

Norns. They’re children. Harry died, and they are children. For the first time in a long time Draco is a child stood on the grounds of Hogwarts, and he is surrounded by death and bloodshed.

He has fought a war for his not-quite-family, for these people who just aren’t how they should be. The girl he loves (even if she isn’t her, even then, even though she’s so close to his Mia-Jean) was tortured in the house he grew up in by his insane aunt, and he had to stand and watch. Heartbroken, he watched.

Remus and Tonks are stood together, their yearling son in his arms, exhausted but alive. Funny, how it all worked out here, for his cousin he barely knows to have married and had a son with the man he considered his father. A little ways from them is the Weasley clan, a cluster of red heads and loud yelling, but all nine of them alive. There’s Harry, sheltered by Hermione, in the midst of the redheaded rabble.

Blaise, Theo and Pansy head over from the crumbled walls to where he’s stiffly stood in the courtyard. Movement is effort – pain – the transformation tore this untrained body to pieces, and he cried, the tears staining eyeliner-dark trails through the filth of battle on his cheeks. So close to being right, this little quartet. Pansy is Fen, Blaise is the cool standoffish Jori, Theo is Hela. Norns but he misses his blood-sworn family, the brothers and sister he’s earned his place beside.

“Draco,” greets Theo in exhaustion, “What now?”

He shrugs helplessly, eyes scanning the crowd for a flash of not-Weasley red and the darker tones of James’ skin before he remembers they’re gone from this world, long gone. “I don’t know. Dispose of the body. Clear up.”

Pansy frowns. “Aurors’ jobs, Drake.”

“No, this – this is what I do. What we do, in my life. That other Earth. Me, and Fen, and Jori, and Hela.”

“What do we do?” asks Blaise. They watch him, waiting for his guidance, and for the first time in oh-so-long he is home and among his friends and on familiar footing. A disgraced Prince. The Slytherin Lordling. A child of Black, in leather and smudged eyeliner, fighting for muggles out of the goodness of his heart. He was trained to be loyal to the realms he serves.

“Gather everyone who wants to start. Activity helps channel grief. Meet me here in half an hour.” He sends up a flare of seidr to hang in the air, his symbol, the Aesir word for dragon with his Black sigil wound through – though maybe it meant nothing in this world, maybe some of the more muggle-aware members would recognise the symbol of one of the most historically chaotic muggle families. “This will stay up until I take it down. It’s getting dark. Be careful.”

His friends nod, disperse into the milling stunned shell-shocked crowds. Maybe his magic is less than it was, maybe his body is weaker, but he still has memories, and a leather jacket, so he heads into the Great Hall and plucks his wand from his boot and starts to cast, the death-dirges heavy on his heart, humming the songs under his breath and shedding tears for those he can’t help. Eyes land on him, whispers follow him, but Poppy approves, is amazed even by his skill – he’s no medic, but he can handle field surgery, and he’s never shown any ability until now. He’s just too exhausted to pretend to be anything other than he is. The half hour passes too fast, Blaise at his side in no time at all.

A crowd has amassed.

“We’re alive,” he says gently, stepping up into the air (belief is the foundation of magic-wielding), “We are alive and some are dead. Now, we must clean up. This is a place of safety and salvation for many, and it lies on us now to help restore it.”

Minerva McGonagall’s eyes drill into him.

“Who has medical training?” There are several raised hands, dubious, but knowing there is a need. In times like these, there’s no time to stand on prejudices. “Go to the Great Hall and report to Madam Pomfrey. Potter, you can handle the outside?”

“Yes, I guess,” he agrees warily.

“Split. People who don’t want to go back into the castle on Potter’s side, those who will on the castle side.”

Hermione winds up standing with Blaise and Theo on the castle side, Pansy on the grounds side. His mother is with Potter, Remus is with him, Tonks is over in the Hall. The oldest three Weasleys are with Draco. The Twins are in the distance managing the younger students who were unable to escape. All in all, they have around 15 people each.

“Remus, how strong is your wolf right now?”

“Tired, but we can continue,” he answers with a frown, “why?”

“Because if we encounter any wolves I’ll need you to sort that out. That git parading as their Alpha is dead but you’re not, so you may need to have a few fights in the foreseeable future, but I trust in your ability to become their Alpha.”

“Thank you,” says the near-broken man softly.

“Strong men shed tears. We are, in this moment, not warriors. Nobody is expecting us to be. We’re people, and we’re going to go in there and help as many people as we can find. Repair as we go. If you get tired, tell us. If you get hurt, tell us. No points are won by needless suffering.” He meets the eyes of everyone who’s volunteered to follow him into the hell of broken childhood.

They follow him, trooping through the cracked walls. On their way, Luna and Neville join them, wands drawn. He’s grateful for them being on his side, at his side as he remembers them being throughout their childhoods.

If they weren’t here the madness in his heart would have broken loose. The rest of the day passes in a haze.

It’s only when night comes, when his friends are secreted in his room in the Manor – tainted and cursed and Dark and sickening, draining, wrong – that he lets himself cry it out, scream it, tear with dragons-claws at the rooms where that monster paraded like a king in his home. His voice runs dry into rasps and wheezes long before dawn. By the time dawn comes he is empty.

He is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone reading these? No? Too bad, I'm going to keep writing them.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a prompt or question! I love expanding this series.


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